


Don't Tell Me If I'm Dying

by GoodOldBaz



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Major Character Injury, Worry, a little ooc, major character illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18314885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodOldBaz/pseuds/GoodOldBaz
Summary: Hastings returns from a doctors appointment with a terrible diagnosis.





	1. Prologue

Hercule Poirot sat quietly at his desk reorganizing his stamp collection. At the sound of the door to his apartment swinging quietly open and he looked up with eager expectation. Hastings had been out nearly all day, and Poirot had been feeling somewhat abandoned. But to his great disappointment he heard the footsteps of his good friend pass by the doors to the room in which he sat and move towards the bedrooms.  
“Hastings?” he called out, rising slightly from his chair. There was a moment of silence, and the doors to the sitting room swung gently open.   
“Yes Poirot?” Hastings said as he looked through the open doors. His eyes looked tired and he looked like he had a headache.  
“Your day and your meeting with the doctor, they went well, yes?” Poirot said hopefully.  
“Yes,” Hastings replied slowly.  
“You look tired, mon ami,” Poirot ventured to say.  
“I - I suppose I am. I’ve a dreadful headache and have had nearly all day.”  
Poirot stood. “Ah, mon cher, sit yourself down and allow Poirot to make you some chamomile tea.”  
“N-no thank you, Poirot,” Hastings replied. “I think I’d just rather go to bed.” Hastings turned and seemed to lose his balance. He shot out his lean hand and held tightly to the door post. His knuckles turned white for a moment as he steadied himself. Poirot took a step closer.  
“Hastings…”  
“It’s nothing, old boy, don’t worry,” said Hastings quickly, without turning to face his friend. “It’s been a long day, that’s all, and, and perhaps I had one drink too many at the pub.” He straightened his back and walked quickly to his room. Poirot cleaned up his stamp collection and retired to bed with an uneasy feeling.  
It was about midnight when he was awoken by a noise from the bathroom. When he went into the hall and saw light spilling from the crack under the door. The sound of gagging and stifled groans met his ears. He knocked quickly at the door but entered before there was any response. To his surprise and dismay, he found Hastings doubled over on the floor, vomiting.  
“Hastings! Hastings!” he exclaimed, kneeling down next to his companion and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What has happened?”  
“It’s nothing, Poirot,” replied the younger man, trying to keep his face evaded from his friend. “I told you, I had a drink to many.”  
“I have never known you to drink excessively, mon ami,” Poirot protested.  
“Well perhaps I have now!” Hastings snapped.  
Poirot recoiled slightly, stunned by the tone in his friends voice.  
“I – I’m sorry, Poirot,” Hastings murmured, groaning. “I’m just not myself at the moment. Would you mind… leaving me alone?”  
Poirot swallowed and gently patted his friends shoulder. “Oui, oui, of course, forgive me.” As he stood to go he turned back and glanced at Hastings. His face was pale and sweating, and in his eyes was an expression he could not quite pinpoint. Poirot did not sleep well that night.


	2. Part 1

Breakfast was a quiet affair the next morning. Hastings seemed somewhat better than he had the evening before, but still something was hidden deep inside his pale blue eyes. Poirot noticed that his friend seemed to be looking at him more than usual, but always evaded meeting his direct gaze. By mid-morning Poirot ventured to ask him how he felt.  
“Much better than last night, thank you,” Hastings smiled. “I told you, you don’t have to worry. I’m fine.”  
Poirot looked unconvinced, but said nothing. Just before noon Hastings went for a walk. When Miss Lemon saw Hastings go she opened the little window between her office and her employer’s sitting room.  
“Mr. Poirot,” she said, glancing at him furrowed brows. “May I ask you a question?”  
“Oui, Miss Lemon,” he replied, looking up at her with a smile.  
“Captain Hastings,” she said hesitantly, “Is he quite alright?”  
Poirot paused a moment before he answered. “I do not know,” he said with a sigh. “He was ill last night, perhaps he is somewhat, how do you say it, under his weather.”  
Miss Lemon smiled a little, but her smile faded quickly. “He doesn’t seem only ill, but unhappy too. You will talk to him about it won’t you?”  
“Perhaps,” Poirot sighed, “We will see how he acts when he comes home from his walk.”  
Miss Lemon nodded and returned to her bookkeeping. The lunch hour had come and gone when the telephone rang.  
“Mr. Poirot,” said Miss Lemon after she had answered the phone, “It is Chief Inspector Japp.”  
Poirot smiled to himself and picked up the receiver. “Bonjour, Chief Inspector! You have for me a case, perhaps?”  
“Afraid not, Poirot,” said the voice at the other end of the line. “I was just wondering about Captain Hastings.”  
“Captain Hastings?” Poirot exclaimed. Everyone seemed to want to talk to him about Captain Hastings today, except Captain Hastings himself.  
“Yes,” Japp replied. “I just saw him coming out of a church. I never knew if he was a religious sort of fella or not, but it’s Tuesday afternoon, and he didn’t look too well at all. I was a bit worried for him, is all. Did something happen I should know about?”  
“That I wish I knew Chief Inspector. He was ill last night and suggested that perhaps he had had too much to drink.”  
Japp huffed incredulously. “I wouldn’t believe that unless I saw it.”  
“I did not believe it either at first, but I can find no other explanation.”  
“He’s got a pretty large family, doesn’t he? Maybe one of them’s died and he’s not reacting to well to it,” Japp suggested.  
“Perhaps, but I would think…” Poirot paused.  
“You’d think he’s talk to you about it, eh?”  
Poirot gave a hesitant word of consent.  
“I think I’ll go over and talk to him. He’s been sitting on a bench staring out at nothing for the past quarter of an hour.”  
“I would be very grateful if you would, Chief Inspector,” said Poirot.  
“Well then, I’ll see what I can do. Talk to you later, Poirot.”  
Japp hung up the phone and walked out of the little red booth. He paused a moment and took a breath. He didn’t usually do this sort of thing, but he’s always felt a sort of special fondness for Poirot and Hastings, he had to admit, especially Poirot. And besides, he thought, something in the manor of the man sitting on the bench worried him very much. With a sniff, he walked over to where Hastings sat and held out his hand.  
“Hello there, Captain Hastings,” he said with a smile. “Fancy meeting you here, eh?”  
Hastings looked up at him in surprise, as if he had been suddenly snapped from some very deep thoughts. He stared at his friend with blurry, squinting eyes. “Oh, hello Chief Inspector,” he said after a moment’s silence. He seemed to not notice the other’s offered hand.  
Jap swallowed; he didn’t really know what to say. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he tried at last.  
“I hadn’t really noticed,” Hastings replied.  
“That’s not like you, Hastings. Is something wrong?” Japp grimaced at his own lack of tact, but Hastings seemed not to notice. He simply shook his head slowly.. Japp sat down on the bench a little abruptly.  
“Did you want something, Chief Inspector?” asked Hastings after a moment’s silence.  
“N-no… I was just wondering, well, I saw you coming out of the church.”  
“Oh yes?”  
“I thought…” Japp’s voice trailed off a moment. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I thought that something might have happened.”  
“No… everything is quite alright, thank you.”  
Japp swallowed and rubbed his nose. “Alright then,” he said as he stood from the bench. “Get some rest. You don’t look so good.”  
A pair of pale blue eyes shot up at the chief inspector. There was an expression in them that Japp had never seen before – a mixture of anger and desperation.  
“Is it really that obvious?” Hastings asked in a weak voice.  
“Then I was right.”  
Hastings lowered his eyes and nervously clenched and unclenched his pale, quivering hands. Japp sat back down.  
“What’s wrong?”  
Hastings licked his dry lips, carefully evading his face from Japp’s gaze. “I’m dying,” he said matter-of-factly.  
Japp flinched. “What!?”  
“I was diagnosed with a brain aneurysm last evening,” Hastings said matter-of-factly. “Final stages,” He continued. “I could drop dead any second.”  
Japp could hardly believe his ears. “Did you tell Poirot?” he asked.  
“How can I?” Hastings breathed, his throat stinging and nearly choking him.  
“The same way you just told me,” Japp said almost sharply. “Look here, Captain Hastings, you and Poirot – you’re about as close as two men can be – and you can’t just let him discover you dead in the hall like one of his murders.”  
Hastings’s winced, not looking at Japp. “I – I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I’m… strong enough. Poirot is the best friend I’ve ever had. He’s always been so good to me. He had made plans to take me to a famous links in France for my birthday, but the doctor said I won’t make it that long. How can I tell him that? He was looking forward to it so much.”  
Japp swallowed. “I don’t see that you have much choice.”  
Hastings sat silently for several moments before he spoke again, his jaw clenched and his brows furrowed.  
“I’ll do it now,” he said with a quivering voice.  
Hastings stood, brushing a bit of dirt off of his pant leg. Japp stood and held out his hand.  
“You are a good man, Hastings,” he said as they clasped hands. “Poirot is a lucky man to have a friend like you.”  
A faint smile of thankfulness flickered across Hastings face. “Thank you, Chief Inspector.”  
Japp gave him a nod, Hastings called a cab, and they parted ways.


	3. Part 2

When Hastings reached his home he lingered for some moments outside the building before going in and making his way to the flat he and Poirot shared. He paused again before the well known door, gathering his strength. With quivering hands and a churning stomach, he entered into flat. Miss Lemon greeted him warmly from her little office.  
“Hello, Miss Lemon,” he said with a faint smile. “Is Poirot in?”  
“Yes he is,” she replied.  
He paused a moment. “Would you mind joining Poirot and me in the sitting room. There’s something I need to tell you both.”  
Miss Lemon looked slightly concerned, but she stood from her desk and followed Hastings into the sitting room where Poirot sat at his desk.  
“Ah, mon ami, Hastings!” Poirot said with a smile. “I am delighted to see you back so early. I thought we might choose together the hotel we will be staying at for your birthday.”  
Hastings felt his stomach do a flip-flop. “There’s… something I need to tell you both, Poirot. Please, Miss lemon, sit down.”  
Miss Lemon did as instructed. A worried expression came over Poirot’s face.  
“Mon ami?” he said quietly. “What is it that is wrong?”  
Hastings took in a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, and licked his try lips. He felt his heart might beat it’s way right out of his chest. “I,” he started, “I want to thank both of you for how good you have always been to me. You are like – family.” He paused a moment. “Miss Lemon, you have been so kind to always take care of Poirot and me the way you do. Thank you for that. Poirot…” Hastings voice cracked and he held in a faint sob.  
Poirot rose, alarmed, from his chair. “Hastings! What has –”  
“Please Poirot,” Hastings said quickly. “Let me finish.”  
Poirot sat back down and he and his secretary exchanged frightened glances.  
“Excusez-moi, mon Hastings. Please, continue.”  
Hastings took in a breath and began again. “Poirot… I, I don’t know quite what to say. You have been my best friend for so many years… you’ve been like a brother to me. Thank you, for planning my birthday trip to the links. It would have been wonderful, I am sure.”  
Poirot opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again at a raise of Hastings hand.  
“I’m very sorry, you have no idea how sorry I am, but I will not be able to go with you. You see… when I told you that my trip to the doctors went well, it was a lie. You know I haven’t been feeling well recently, all the trouble with my head and eyes and such. While I was at the doctor’s I asked him about it. He… he told me I have a brain aneurysm. It’s in its final stages, and…” Hastings stopped. He stared into the eyes of his long-time companion for only a moment before the pain became too great. He looked down at the floor, a tear trickling down his gentle cheek. “Poirot… Miss Lemon… I’m going to die, and most likely very soon...”  
Hastings’ voice trailed off and there was silence in the room. No one spoke for what seemed like years. At last Miss Lemon stood quietly and slipped her hand into Hastings’.  
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured quietly. He looked at her, his pale blue eyes damp and nearly overflowing.  
“So am I,” he said hoarsely.  
Miss Lemon gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Tears welled up in her eyes and she glanced at Poirot. She paused a moment, and left the room, and the two friends were left in silence.  
“P-please, Poirot,” Hastings said at last. “Say something.”  
Poirot stood slowly, moving around the desk and towards his friend. He reached out his faintly quivering hand and placed it on Hastings’ arm.  
“Mon cher ami…” His lips quivered and he swallowed, turning his face downward.  
“I – I didn’t know how to tell you last night,” Hastings said slowly. “Japp spoke with me in the park. Somehow he knew something was wrong. I… didn’t want to tell you, I didn’t know how I could, but he said… he said…”  
Poirot looked up into his companion’s eyes. “I am glad, mon Hastings, that you have told me. It is not news I would ever wish to hear, but it is better – better to find out this way, than to…” Poirot’s voice faded. They both knew what he meant, but he seemed not to be able to bring himself to say it. He slowly reached out and took Hastings hands in his. “Mon cher ami, oh mon ami, mon frère.” His voice cracked, tears filling his bright green eyes. “This, it cannot be so…”  
There was a long moment of silence. “What am I to do now?” Hastings said at last. “Do I go on as normal? Can I?”  
Poirot paused a moment. A decisive look passed suddenly across his face. “No.”  
“No?”  
“No, we do not go on as normal. We go to France for your birthday trip, now.”  
“But Poirot –”  
“You will –” Poirot paused a moment as if afraid to speak his next words. “You will spend your last days, mon ami, doing what it is that you love so much. Playing golf on those so famous links.”  
“But I can’t go alone; I – I don’t want to be alone.”  
“You will not be alone, mon cher, I will be with you.”  
“But you’re in the middle of a case, aren’t you?”  
“Bah! A little thing. I will discard it.”  
“But I don’t feel right taking you away from a case.”  
Poirot had not yet let go of Hastings hands, and now he squeezed them gently. “You, Hastings, are far more important than any case I could ever have.”  
Hastings eyes fell and his face went a little red. After a moment he looked back up. “Thank you, Poirot…thank you.”  
Poirot nodded slowly. “For you, mon cher ami, Poirot, he would do anything.”  
Hastings smiled, a warm, peaceful feeling rising in his chest. But it was short-lived. A sudden, terrible pain shot through his head, a pain worse than anything he’d felt before. He let out a little exclamation and raised his hand to his head. Poirot flinched, unsure of what to do. They’d both gone very pale.  
“It’s alright,” Hastings said quickly. “Just a headache. I have them nearly all the time. It’s –” But he never finished. Very suddenly he fell to the ground, his knees giving way beneath him, completely unconscious. His body stiffened and his neck arched. Poirot cried out, a fear like he’d never experienced before encompassing him, and fell on his knees beside his friend.  
“Miss Lemon!” he cried out, his voice and hands shaking. “Miss Lemon! Venez vite! Vite! Hastings, he is having a seizure!”  
Miss Lemon ran from her little office and into the sitting room just as Hastings cried out and began to convulse. She gasped, but didn’t hesitate a moment. She ran back into her office, grabbed a book from the depths of her desk, and began to flip wildly through it. Poirot watched his companion helplessly, entirely unsure of what to do, and afraid any aid he tried to provide would only make things worse. He saw blood was trickling form the corner of Hastings mouth, from where he imagined he’d bitten his tongue, and his head was hitting hard against the floor with each convulsion. Poirot felt in an absolute panic. He stood quickly, grabbed a pillow off of the sofa, and pushed it underneath his companion’s head. Half a moment later the seizure suddenly slowed and stopped. Poirot stood for a moment, too afraid to look closely. Miss Lemon came back quickly into the room.  
“The medical book says we ought to –” she began, but she fell silent when she saw how stilly Hastings lay on the floor. Transfixed with fear, neither Poirot nor Miss Lemon could move. “Is he – is he –”  
Poirot knelt slowly. “He is breathing a little,” he said at last.  
Miss Lemon gave a little sigh of relief, her hands held tightly over her heart.  
“His face is rather blue.”  
She suddenly remembered what she’d read. “We ought to turn him on his side and loosen his tie so that his airway is clear. He should wake up in ten to thirty minutes.”  
Poirot nodded slowly, reached out his hands, and gently turned Hastings on his side, carefully loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar. He looked up at Miss Lemon. His face was glistening with sweat and a sort of hopeless agony filled his green eyes. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. How can I carry on without him?


	4. Part 3

Hastings awoke slowly. He felt drowsy, weak, and confused, and his entire body ached, especially the back of his head. He slowly became aware that his tongue felt rather like he had bitten through it. He winced as he moved it around in his mouth  
“W-what – where am I?” he mumbled, trying to sit up. “What happened?”  
Poirot, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, sat up immediately. “Hastings!” he said, standing quickly and moving towards the bed. “How do you feel?”  
“A bit – groggy… I – ouch!” He grimaced as he felt the pain in his tongue intensify as he spoke.  
“Here,” Poirot turned and took a glass of ice from the tableside. “Hold out your hand, mon ami.”  
Hastings did so, and Poirot tipped the glass so that a small chunk of ice fell into his palm.  
“Place it on your tongue, Hastings, it will numb the pain.”  
Hastings did as instructed. After a moment of silence as the ice melted a little, Hastings lifted his hand to the back his head. It was very tender.  
“What happened?” he asked, his words a little slurred by the ice in his mouth.   
“You had a seizure, mon ami,” said Poirot slowly.  
Hastings nodded. “I see. I suppose that means I’ve a bit less time than I thought, aye?” He smiled weakly, but it faded quickly. “I think I would like to get up.”  
“Are you positive, Hastings? Do you think you are strong enough?”  
Hastings seemed not to hear his friend’s words, and sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “G-give me your hand, Poirot,” he said a little weakly. “I’m a bit off balance.”  
Poirot did so and they walked together out of the bedroom and into the hall. Miss Lemon was waiting there, a very worried expression on her face.  
“How do you feel?” she asked quietly.  
“Alright,” Hastings replied, releasing Poirot’s hand and taking the last few steps to the sitting room alone. He looked with blurry eyes at the room before him. He didn’t know what to do, or why he’d even wanted to walk out there. He felt very confused and helpless.  
“Mon ami,” said Poirot from behind him. “I think it would be best if you rest.”  
Hastings turned around. “I can’t, Poirot,” he said with feeling. “I can’t just sit here and feel sorry for myself.”  
“Then we shall go to the links as I suggested?”  
Hastings paused for only a moment. “Yes, please…”  
Poirot nodded. “If we are not slow we can make the 3:30 in plenty of time. Miss Lemon will call for our hotel reservations.”  
“Thank you, Poirot, Miss Lemon. I think – I think I’ll go pack.”  
Hastings walked quietly back to his room without looking at Poirot or Miss Lemon. They both looked after him for a moment. Miss Lemon turned to Poirot. Her face was even paler than usual and tears glistened in her clear blue eyes.  
“Mr. Poirot…” she began, but her voice failed her. Poirot reached out his hand and laid it on hers, patting it gently. Neither could bring themselves to attempt a smile.  
“How long do you think he has?” she asked suddenly, her voice shaking.  
“I do not know, Miss Lemon,” he replied quietly. “But… I do not think that it will be very long.”  
His words were quiet and hoarse. He took a slow breath, turned, and retired to his room to pack his things.  
A short while later both men returned to the hall, bags packed. Hastings eyes were reddish and puffy. It was clear he had been crying, but neither Poirot nor Miss Lemon said a word.  
The trip to the train station, and from the train satiation to the boat, were very quiet, and perhaps the boat ride even quieter. Hastings said nothing the entire trip, save for once when he accepted a cup of coffee from a stewardess. Poirot tired once or twice to bring up topics he knew Hastings would enjoy, but nothing could entice the younger man to speak. When they finally reached France and the links were in sight Hastings mood seemed to change slightly. The passion for the game of golf was so deeply instilled in him he could hardly help but feel at least a little bit better. He wanted to go out at once to play, but his head ached terribly and he was very tired. He laid down in his room while Poirot unpacked his things in the other room. A bellboy came into Poirot's room a moment later.  
"Excuse me, Sir," he said hesitantly.  
"Oui mon garcon?" Poirot asked with a weak smile.  
"I beg you'll forgive me, Sir, but is your friend in the other room alright?"  
Poirot hesitated a moment. "He is not well, no. We take a last holiday together."  
The boy bit his lip. "I'm sorry, Sir. I think I ought to mention to you then, he's vomiting in his bathroom, Sir. I offered him help when I brought his bag up, but he didn't want any. I was worried, so..."  
But Poirot did not wait for the boy to finish. He was through the connecting doors and into Hastings' bathroom quicker than would have seemed possible for the little man.  
"Mon ami, mon cher ami," he was saying with quick breaths as he bent over his ill companion.  
"I-I'm sorry, Poirot," Hastings said after a moment's pause. "Go on an unpack your things. I'm alright. The pain is just so bad sometimes."  
Poirot looked afraid, but said nothing.  
"Go on, Poirot," Hastings encouraged. "I'll be alright in a moment. I may even go out and play some golf before the sun goes down."  
He gave his friend a little smile, and after a moment of hesitated, Poirot returned to his own room. It was nearly half an hour later when Hastings had a little wash, changed his clothes, and went out onto the links to play some golf. His game, he said, was not ‘on’ that evening, and he came back inside just as the sun began to set. When it came time for dinner he changed his clothes again and met Poirot in the dining room.  
"Hello, old man," he said with a smile.  
"Bonjour, mon Hastings," the little man returned, surprised at how well Hastings seemed at the moment. "Your playing of the golf, it went well?"  
"Afraid not," Hastings sighed, fumbling a moment with his glass before picking it up and taking a sip. "I couldn't get into the swing of it. I'll play again tomorrow. Perhaps you'd like to come out with me, just for the morning?"  
"Oh oui bein sur!" Poirot smiled. "Poirot, he would be delighted!"  
Things went very much like this for the following two days. It was late afternoon on the third day that Hastings found himself alone in a somewhat secluded area of the golf course. There was a bench nearby so he walked over and sat down. He felt alright, better, in fact, than he had felt in quite a few days, though his vision was doubled and blurred, the most recent side effect of his aneurysm, and that kept him from forgetting he was a dying man. He could hardly play golf any longer. One had to be able to see, of course, to play very good golf. But he didn’t tell that to Poirot. He knew it would hurt him. At least he didn't have to worry about his seizures any longer. A doctor at the hotel had given him some medicine which he said would hold them off for a time. For a few days, the doctor had actually said. Hastings thought that would be alright. He didn't think he'd last much more than a few more days anyway. It hurt, very much, to think about dying. It was not that he was scared, he'd never particularly been scared of death, and he'd gone now for some days with the knowledge he'd be dying very soon so that the shock of it had pretty much worn off. The thing that hurt him most was that he knew he would have to leave Poirot. It was like he missed him already. He thought, as he sat there, that Poirot would have to tell his family. After all, he had never even told them he was ill. It would be quite a shock to all of them. He realized now that that didn't seem quite fair to either Poirot or his family.  
"Oh well," he said aloud, standing from his bench. His vision was clearing up a bit, so he took his shot and moved on.  
It was late in the evening a week into their holiday and Arthur Hastings was sitting quietly on the terrace beside his friend.  
"Poirot," he said finally, breaking the silence.  
"Yes, Hastings?" Poirot replied.  
Hastings paused a moment. "Thank you," he said at last.  
"For what, mon ami?"  
"For being here. I am past my life expectancy already. I don't have long left. And you've been here for me all the time. You're a good man." His voice was quivering slightly as he spoke, and he did not move his eyes from the darkening horizon. "I think I would like to go home."


	5. Prologue

Miss Felicity Lemon waited uneasily in her little office. Earlier that morning Captain Hastings and her employer had returned from their holiday in France and ever since then she had been struggling deeply with her emotions. She was so happy to see the two of them back in the old familiar sitting room, seeming almost like nothing had ever happened, but at the same time she knew something had happened, and at any moment things would change forever.  
About half an hour ago Hastings had gone to speak with his doctor, and Poirot was pacing his office. Once or twice she'd tried offering him something to eat or drink, but each time he had refused. She was worried for him most of all, truth be told. She knew her employer was a very emotional man, and she knew how close he was to his dearest friend. She did not want to see him grieve.  
She was so lost in her thoughts that she jumped a little when she heard the door to the flat open and footsteps sound in the hall. The door to her little office opened and Hastings poked his head in.  
"Miss Lemon, would you mind coming into the sitting room?" he said in a strange tone. She only caught a glimpse of his face before he returned to the hall, but on his face she had seen an expression so utterly new to her that she could not for her life pinpoint what was going on in his head. With a strange feeling of both foreboding and excitement she followed the captain into the sitting room.  
"Hastings? What is it?" Poirot was saying as she entered.  
"There's something I've got to tell you both," he said. "You might want to sit down."  
This was done, and he cleared his throat.  
"You remember me saying I had been feeling a bit better over the past few days?"  
Poirot nodded, and Miss Lemon wrung her hands.  
"When I was with the doctor today he gave me an x-ray. He did it three times over, in fact..." For a moment his voice faulted, and he paused. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, wiping out their dampness. At last he collected his thoughts and began again. "My brain aneurysm... it's gone."  
"Can this be?" Poirot said with a breath.  
"The doctor said he's never seen anything like it. It's a miracle."  
Poirot leaped from his chair, unable to remain properly British any longer. He flew to his friend and wrapped him in an embrace. This time Hastings did not shy away from the little man's display of affection, and a smile broke across his face, wiping away all the sorrow that had filled it for the last weeks. He started laughing.  
"I can hardly believe it myself," he said when Poirot has released him and he shook hands with Miss Lemon.  
"Oh, Captain Hastings!" she said smiling, her eyes just wet with tears. "I can't tell you how happy I am for you."  
Poirot grabbed Hastings again and kissed both his cheeks.  
"Steady on, old boy," Hastings grinned, and he started laughing again.  
Poirot looked up into the eyes of his friend, feeling happier than he had felt in what seemed like a very long time.  
Miss Lemon thought to herself that she had never seen her employer cry before.


End file.
